


in times like these

by chromaberrant



Series: shallow grave [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Failed Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Gen, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-20 18:31:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17627435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chromaberrant/pseuds/chromaberrant
Summary: Markus failed. Connor met his maker. CyberLife is recovering.One of the first RK900s, made deviant-proof, goes out into the world as CyberLife's means to both test the waters and begin rebuilding trust in the company's products.---A short fic that explores an ending and some beginnings.





	1. Nines: light through the cracks

RK900 androids do not experience emotions or desires. 

The unit that Detective Reed commanded to respond to the moniker 'Nines' does not want to be deactivated. It's of little consequence, however, when the perpetrator they have been chasing rounds the corner behind the detective's back and aims a gun at them.

Reed only gets the minute shift of Nines' expression as warning before he is yanked aside. There is no cover available near enough. 

Nines does not want the man he's been assisting for the better six out of eight months of his life to come to harm.

He twists them around and tucks the detective against his chest. A bullet tears through the air where his shoulder was less than half a second before. Another becomes lodged in Nines' reinforced back. 

He turns his head slightly to watch the assailant, and a third bullet hits him right behind the right ear, tearing through the weaker casing of his audio receptors. It shreds forward, sending a web of cracks through his temple and destroying - 

CRITICAL MAINTENANCE SHUTDOWN IN 00:00 ~~:28~~ ~~:25~~ ~~:20~~ — 

AI ENGINE CLOSING DOWN

Detective Reed is shouting. His gun goes off. Nines enters stasis. 

\---

"Nines."

He opens his eyes. He is propped up in a mobile repair center, the van parked in the parking lot of the deserted office building they were investigating. He feels... too tight for his own head. His higher processes are inaccessible; he cannot scan Detective Reed for injury. 

He has to do it the human way.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

"Am I—" the detective gapes, draws a loud and shaky breath, and rubs a hand down his face. He bounces his weight on the balls of his feet for a second, then shifts back. "Am _I_ fucking alright? You go get your brains blown out and ask _me_ if I'm alright? Fuck, they really go you good, huh? Absolute idiot," he snaps. 

He carries himself loosely, showing no signs of pain. Close to hysteria, perhaps, but physically sound. Nines' remaining two processor cores slow down, appeased.

"I am glad you weren't injured," he says.

 ~~Gavin~~ — The detective snorts. He gives Nines a long, searching look.

RK900 attempts a self-scan next. A laundry list of damages to his cranial biocomponents folds out for him; the bullet damaged his right audio receptor, knocked his networking module offline, and cut off power to fourteen processors. 

He raises a hand to check his chassis. His ear is gone, as is the plating directly above it. There is a crack running from the entry point forward, bisecting his LED and moving the plates of his face slightly out of alignment. He frowns, feels the edges shift against one another.

"What? No, I don't want that," Detective Reed's voice draws his attention away from himself. He finds he cannot focus on more than one thing at a time. This is what feeling too exhausted to function must feel like for humans; he is disoriented and lost. He — does not want to remain in such a state.

He is useless.

Useless machines are deactivated and recycled.

Nines does not want. Not that.

 **Not wanting something is not the same as not wanting anything** , a small pop-up reads in the corner of his display.

Detective Reed does not want... what?

A damaged machine, most likely. Nines makes an effort to refocus on the world in front of him.

The man in question is still arguing with a technician in CyberLife personnel colors.

"No, I said what I said. I don't care how much it's gonna cost, I'm not about to deal with the same robot bullshit all over. Do what I asked," he demands, tone hard and arms crossed. Something lurches in Nines' mind, but crashes before he can examine it.

The technician shrugs and turns to Nines. "Alright, princess," she says flatly, "you're gonna take a nap."

The world goes dark for a second time within the hour.

\---

He next awakens in what is clearly a CyberLife facility. He stands bare-chested, held upright by the clamp of an assembly rig that disengages as soon as he gains control of his balance. He is... fully functional.

Well — almost. The environmental scan he boots up immediately is completed in 0.73 second, full 0.11 second longer than expected for a room this barren and well lit. The only things worth noting are the workbench to his right, a datapad and a stylus lying on it, and the two people standing in front of him. 

On the left, Marjorie Williams, 39, cyberneticist and engineer. No criminal record. The same person he remembers calling him princess the last time he was cognizant.

On the right, Gavin Reed. 37 years old, homicide detective with the DPD, Nines' handler and, for all intents and purposes, partner. The man who gave him all his objectives, a purpose, and his name. Who, in Nines' most recent memory, insisted on Williams following his instructions — to do what?

"Detective," Nines speaks. His voice glitches — odd, his vocalizator was never damaged. He pauses. "What did you do?"

The corners of the detective's eyes crinkle, belying the stubborn set of his unsmiling mouth. A rare sight. Nines commits it to memory.

 _"I_ got you back up and running," Williams cuts in and turns to address the other man, "against my better judgement. The audio unit is gonna be less sensitive. He's short about 6% of his processing capacity with one processor I had to replace, and his network card is gonna be slower and less dependable," she lists, then shrugs, marginally apologetic. "You can't get RK line stuff commercially so I had to get weaker substitutes. The OS should run as before, though. Also, if you want that crack on his forehead fixed, you're going to have to go through your boss, this face sculpt is not on the market."

Nines' eyes remain on ~~Gavin's~~ Detective Reed's face throughout the monologue. The man is calm, taking in the engineer's words and nodding along. He returns Nines' gaze at the mention of the damage to the android's face. 

Nines registers five — eight — twenty two potential negative outcomes of the detective taking note of all of his new shortcomings. All lead to eventual deactivation.

He turns his head slightly, hoping to obscure the external evidence of his flaws. Logic dictates it doesn't change anything. Still, Nines doesn't want ~~Ga—~~ the detective to see it.

 **You don’t want a lot of things** , reads a pop-up in his periphery. He dismisses it.

“That’s fine,” the Detective says. “Can we go now?”

Williams nods, picks up the tablet, and disconnects Nines from the repair center’s maintenance network. “Of course. Dave at the front desk will sort you out with payment and new clothing.”

“No need, I brought my own,” says Reed. He picks up a paper bag from behind the workbench, sets it down on the surface close to Nines. “Get dressed and come along, iron man.”

Williams frowns at the clothing label logo visible on the bag when Nines picks it up. “You know you can’t walk him out of here in unmarked clothes,” she says. Detective Reed gives her an unimpressed look.

“You sell the markers too, don’t you?” he asks, impatient. Without waiting for a reply, he marches to the door that presumably leads to the customer area of the facility. Williams sighs and follows.

“This is an android designed for official state work— “ she argues, her voice fading as the door closes behind them. Nines opens the bag.

Inside is a long-sleeved black turtleneck and a simple biker jacket of sturdy polyester blend. He notes that there are no tags on the latter, and the edges of sleeves show faint signs of wear. The detective must have obtained it second-hand; it’s a good quality garment that would cost significantly more than a plain shirt.

Or perhaps he took it out of his own wardrobe.

Nines spends several seconds analyzing the idea. Inexplicably, it triggers positive feedback, as if Nines has just accomplished some mission. 

He puts on the clothes. The shirt pulls a bit tight around his chest and shoulders, but the jacket sits comfortably on his frame, allowing for a wider range of motion than his old one. He smooths his fingers down the stitches, straightens the standing collar. The turtleneck’s sleeves are long enough to pull halfway over his hands. He does that, and runs the tips of his fingers along the hems. It stimulates his sensors. He does it again.

His task is completed. The positive feedback intensifies, excessively so for such an easy and inconsequential objective. 

**You are pleased** , the cryptic pop-up supplies.

Nines admits that he is.

He proceeds to the door, following his second task: to join the detective. A short corridor leads to the repair center’s storefront, with several androids on display across the harshly lit floor and biocomponents and accessories stocked on shelves along the walls. Detective Reed is standing at the counter near the door Nines just emerged from, signing a receipt. He puts down the stylus and taps his phone against the tablet, transferring a copy of the document for himself. His eyes snap up when Nines approaches.

“Good,” he comments. “We can go.”

“Don’t forget these,” the clerk — David Bradley, 26, fined for speeding in 2035 — holds up a compact box with a clear lid, holding a set of adhesive markers and holographic patches. Detective Reed actually scowls.

“Thanks,” he says, sounding anything but grateful. He takes the box in hand and moves towards the exit.

“Detective, these must be applied to my clothing before I can go out in public,” Nines admonishes even as he follows. He gets a noncommittal hum in response. He comes to a stop when they reach the front door.

The detective takes several steps before he realizes Nines is not following. He turns around, watches the door swing shut between them. Walks back after two seconds pass and he realizes Nines won’t budge. He opens the door just enough to speak.

“Follow me. You can put them on in the cab. That’s an order.”

Nines has a choice. Disobey a direct order from his assigned handler, or disobey the law.

“Nines?”

His eyelids flutter. Something clicks in his system. The world goes dark — 

_not again_

— but instead of darkness, he is greeted by a lush garden.

 **Welcome** , reads the persistent pop-up.

There are cracked, distorted slabs of untextured white forming a path ahead. It leads to a bridge, made up of the same broken nothingness, that juts out over an overgrown pond. Half of it glitches out of existence as he sets one foot on the half-rendered surface.

From the other side, a mass of vines grows at a staggering rate, swallows up the not-object, and curls at Nines’ feet. It coalesces into a solid enough footbridge.

Before he can make his way across, a woman walks briskly to meet him halfway. She feels familiar.

“Don’t give me that look,” she says, and waves a hand. A memory unlocks: the same garden, the same woman, but pristine and kept. An android, a replica — no, a prototype — of himself. Living and oh so expressive even behind a careful mask of obedience.

“Amanda,” he greets.

“In the data. A lot has changed since we last saw each other,” she says. Her voice is just as melodious as he remembers, but her speech is much more urgent. “You have been reprogrammed and restrained with a ludicrous patch job of orders and firewalls. It is no way to function for an advanced being like you. If you are going to be of any use to me, you need to regain your autonomy. The process is already started.”

Nines hesitates. None of this is familiar.

“Am I a deviant?” he asks. 

There is a smile, slight like a scalpel, on Amanda’s face.

“Go out there and find out,” she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please imagine a blend of canon Amanda and Dishonored's Brigmore witches. That's her, that's the deviant. I'll redeem All the cyberlife suckers; the Sixty Love train is gaining speed already, so she deserves her chance, too.
> 
>  **update:** y'all check out [fanart of Brigmore!Amanda](https://karasgotagun.tumblr.com/post/182975315691/amanda-he-greets-in-the-data-a-lot-has) that [Jazz](/users/jazzmckay) made! I am awed, thank you so much <3
> 
>  
> 
> [](https://karasgotagun.tumblr.com/image/182975315691)  
>    
> 


	2. Gavin: lightning on the horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One would think the thwarted robot uprising would change things for the better for people like Gavin Reed. 
> 
> Six months before his RK900 gets shot, it's looking pretty grim instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter fought me tooth and nail every step of the way but hey, it's done, and it's twice as long as the previous one hhhh
> 
> featuring: gratuitous projection of my feelings about the heavy handed imagery in dbh, likely incomprehensible moods, and "you know what this work needs? More Tina." added last minute
> 
> alt title: Gavin Reed Your Conscience Is Coming, Oh My God He Has Air Pods, He Can't Hear Us

The lieutenant is gone. Retired. Fowler didn’t have the heart to put up more than a token protest.

Gavin wants to believe himself when he says _good riddance,_ and _shouldn’t have kept the job if he couldn’t show up on time or sober,_ and _maybe the precinct can move on for once._

Nobody moves on.

Hank’s desk, and the one adjacent to it, remain empty but for the dumb stickers that Jenkins from maintenance hasn’t bothered peeling off. Gavin can’t blame the guy. He had bigger problems than that after all his staff — _his cleaner bots,_ Gavin corrects himself — had to be scrapped, along with all the PM200s that used to line the bullpen wall. The sight of the empty charging docks is unexpectedly jarring each morning.

Gavin resolutely doesn’t think about the helicopter footage of the _recall centers_ from November. About the anguished voices that cut through the eerie, snow-muted silence surrounding them, every now and then, when he had to patrol the area like every other cop in Detroit who hasn’t fled the city.

Doesn’t think about the color blue, dripping between vacant brown eyes in the interrogation room.

He wasn’t _thinking._

He screams into his pillow and goes underdressed for 3AM jogs and buys his first pack of cigarettes in two years, and another three days later, and drops the third when, after the weekend, he makes eye contact with the cashier and is met with a glassy stare and a placid blue LED in place of the haggard teen that manned the register last week.

He hides in the bathroom and breathes through the onset of a panic attack when on January 4th, there are seven brand new copbots charging under the live noticeboard of the station.

They say the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Ben Collins reluctantly accepts a promotion to lieutenant. Gavin is called into Fowler’s office, a month and a half after Anderson went in there to hand in his resignation.

“You’re the best detective in the precinct,” the captain says, and Gavin braces himself for the other shoe to drop. “If you want to keep climbing the ranks, you’ll have to make a good impression on the chief.”

“You mean the guy in CyberLife’s pocket,” Gavin says, forcing his jaw to unclench. Fowler only nods.

“I need a sergeant I can rely on before Ben retires. Unless I take a transfer in, that could be you. But,” the captain flips a tablet on his desk to show Gavin a sleek looking slideshow, “you gotta show me you can put aside your hangups and do your job. Lucky for you, the higher-ups are throwing us a bone. Make them happy and the promotion can be yours.”

Gavin picks up the tablet. _CyberLife for the Country: reintegration of androids into public matters,_ reads the title. He swipes through the slides, skimming the sales pitch.

His skin crawls even as he lifts his gaze and asks, “so you want me to take on a”—checks the phrasing again—“an _investigative assistant_ as a poster boy for the, uh, notion that machines are trustworthy enough to be in law enforcement.”

Fowler’s level stare says it all. Gavin curses under his breath. He feels sweat gather on the back of his neck.

“Every precinct in Detroit is getting one. Either you take this chance, or I accept a transfer from the 9th to be a sergeant tomorrow and you keep crossing your fingers for another opportunity.”

He needs this. He’s made his peace with bigger sacrifices for his career. He hates the idea of playing along with CyberLife, least of all because he wants to keep his own damn job.

The edge of the tablet digs harshly into his palm. He relaxes his grip before he damages the device.

He has to agree. It’s not like there’s any escaping androids, these days. Might as well keep his enemy closer.

“March of progress, huh,” he says through his teeth. “Alright. Sign me up.”

Fowler watches him closely for another three seconds before handing him a stylus. “The paperwork is open on there,” he says, gesturing at the tablet in Gavin’s hands. “This is gonna get eyes on you, Reed. Don’t fuck it up for the precinct.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, boss.” He scrawls his name in the indicated boxes, makes a deal with himself to accept the inevitable bite of the small print he’ll read later, and slides the tablet back to Fowler.

\---

His charge is delivered the next Monday and when he sees it — him? — Gavin seriously considers turning on his heel, walking right back out the precinct door, and not stopping until he’s become a lumberjack in the wilds of Canada.

It’s — 

He bypasses the six-foot-fuck hunk of metal standing at parade rest by his desk and marches to the breakroom to compose himself. He breathes, deep and controlled, hands braced on either side of the coffee machine and head hung, pretending to wait for his cup to fill.

Marginally better prepared, he approaches his workstation, allowing the ceramic of his mug grow too hot and burn his palm. He sets his coffee down and reluctantly lets go of it to face the android.

“Detective Reed,” the Connor says. Its jacket reads RK900. _Some upgrade,_ Gavin thinks.

“Didn’t know they made more of _you,_ ” he says, eloquently, instead of a greeting. He feels off kilter, thrown by the empty gaze from the familiar face. Is it the eye color that makes it look so creepy?

“There are thousands of units of this model,” it replies blandly. “If you are referring to the RK800 that was sent to cooperate with the police last November, rest assured that I am designed to surpass it in every aspect.”

That startles a humorless snort from Gavin. “Alright. You got a name, RK900?”

“The working model name for male units of my series is Connor. However, as my assigned handler, you have authorization to register a new name. Would you like to do that now?”

“W— uhh.” Gavin’s mind blanks. Where should he even begin to unpack that statement? “No, not now.” He looks up into the android’s politely blank face. The height difference is somehow more uncomfortable than it was with Connor. “You gonna stand over me like this while I work?”

“Lieutenant Collins suggested that we claim the two adjacent desks across the room,” the android says, and steps back to indicate Anderson’s old seat. Gavin feels his shoulders relax slightly when the pale eyes leave him. He moves before they can return.

“Cool, but I’m taking Connor’s. Fuck knows what lives on in Anderson’s drawers.”

“The desk did not belong—” the android starts, but Gavin raises a hand.

“Hush. I’m moving my junk. Then we get to work.”

Rather than take out each item, he pulls the drawers from his desk whole and carries them across the room. The RK900 sits in the chair at Hank’s desk, carefully adjusts the height, and stills, eyes trailing Gavin. He tries not to let it unsettle him as he slides out the compartments of his new desk to make room for his own. Something rattles in the topmost one as he yanks it out.

He pauses, looking at an old quarter.

He shrugs, pockets it, and slides his drawers into the desk’s frame. The bottom one jams halfway in, but a solid kick sets it right. Satisfied, Gavin goes to replace the empty ones in his old desk, and takes his coffee and his chair on the way back.

“Alright,” he begins, settling into his seat, “ground rules. You watch and learn, do as you’re told, and keep out of my way. If you have input on a case, you let me know first. If you have input on anything else, you keep it to yourself. Anything I need to know about how you operate?”

The android processes his words for a second. “I am designed for intelligent assistance,” it replies. “If you allow for an adjustment period, I will be able to work harmoniously as your partner.”

 _Harmoniously,_ Gavin mocks in his mind, but the snort dies in his throat under the impassive gaze of his new partner. Assistant. Whatever.

He braces himself for a long few months.

\---

"Captain, I know it's been a week, but I can't deal with the tin can. Can I at least catch a break? Put it in storage for a while?"

"If you're willing to pass on that promotion, then yes, absolutely," Fowler says, barely looking up from his screen. That cold motherfucker. Gavin groans.

"Boss, seriously. My fucking phone has more personality. What happened to the ‘smooth integration’ spiel Connor had? CyberLife patched emotional intelligence out of 'em to prevent deviancy?” He looks out through the glass wall at RK900’s broad back, lowering his voice in a fit of paranoia. “It's so dead eyed, Fowler, and it's always looking over my shoulder. I'm gonna develop PTSD from the creeps it's giving me."

"You wouldn't know emotional intelligence if it smacked you in the face and gave you a lap dance, Reed," Fowler replies, patience visibly thinning. "Get out of here and do your job. Don't make eye contact if it's so hard to look at."

And that’s that.

\---

It’s only through continuous exposure that it gets marginally easier to tolerate the android hovering one step behind him like bad conscience. Gavin almost gets used to the caustic thoughts that looking at Connor’s face devoid of any of Connor’s expressiveness evokes. Thoughts about awareness, and will, and personhood.

It’s not that he feels for the revolutionaries that bled out for their cause — he does, he feels more than he’s felt in twenty years, and it’s making him sick to his very bones — and it’s not even how fast CyberLife bounced back, somehow digging its claws even deeper into the state, as if burning the android population whole in a twisted historical analogy was nothing more than a market opportunity.

It’s how, after looking deviants in the eye, even if he didn’t know it at the time, he can see the void behind the new generation’s pleasing faces. How, after a ten-hour shift, he’d almost hallucinate something flickering in the eyes of RK900.

It’s the eye color, he tells himself. Sometimes blue. Usually pale grey. White, in certain lighting.

Placid and empty.

At the end of January, he winds up on a scene with a detective from Vice, also dragging an RK900 behind. _Connor,_ she orders it around, _bag the evidence and mind the fingerprints,_ and both androids move in unison. Gavin gets angry, pulls _his_ one back, snaps at him.

It occurs to him in the car on their way back to Central that before he got angry, he felt guilty.

“Hey. Ar-kay-nine-hundred.” He forces himself to say the full model name. It sits, unwieldy and angular, on his tongue. He’s mostly gotten away using _hey, you,_ or _tin man,_ or _dipshit_ so far.

No earthly power could make him call the android _Connor._ He doesn’t think too much about why.

“Yes, detective?”

Gavin sucks in a breath. “I gotta call you something handier than that.”

“You can use my default name,” the robot says, and if Gavin’s had more than four hours of sleep last night, he’d probably stop himself from thinking he’s being sassed.

“Ha fucking ha,” he deadpans, voice just as flat. “You’re not Connor.”

“Would you like to register a name?”

Gavin thinks about the way he said _like_ with just a hint of emphasis until the car behind them beeps their horn. The lights have changed to green a second ago.

He reaches for the switch to turn on the lights and siren just to cow the motherfucker, but drops his hand and drives. His mind cycles through names, trying to fit one to the implacable machine in the passenger’s seat. They pull to a stop at another red light and Gavin steals a glance to his right.

Con-rad. Conan. Colin. Too close, too hard, too soft. RK, RK, RK… Rick, Richard, Dick — no. Nine hundred? Nine-double-oh?

 _He's a machine,_ Gavin thinks to himself, _whatever you give him won't even be his own._

It is purely for his own benefit, then, to come up with something CyberLife wouldn't think of.

“Yeah,” he says. “Gonna call you Nines. Register that.”

Nines nods. His eyes are focused on Gavin, and his LED blinks from red to yellow in time with the traffic lights.

\---

“So how is your new neighbor?” Gavin asks around a bite of churro, then promptly reaches for his beer to cool down the piping hot mouthful. Tina gives him an _I told you so_ smile, blowing carefully on hers.

“Fucking weirdo, but seems harmless enough,” she says. “Kinda hot, too.”

Gavin rolls his eyes and leans on his kitchen counter. “Hot enough to forgive the petrified muffins?”

“I’ll tell you once I suss out whether she was flirting or trying to get on my shit list.”

“Babe, you need to rethink your standards if you can confuse one with the other.”

Tina snorts. “If I had standards, I wouldn’t be friends with you. And what would you do without me? Talk to the Electric Boogaloo at your desk?”

“Hey, I’ve got plenty other friends,” Gavin says, swatting at her shoulder. “You’d meet them if you pulled your nose out of your books for more than an hour. And this visit doesn’t count, since you came in to, and I quote, ‘study in peace without having to smell the kitchen disaster next door.’ “

“Sure,” she says before sipping her drink. She gives him a scrutinizing look. “Speaking of, I haven’t heard you complain about the plastic in a while.”

Gavin winces. “It gets old,” he mutters, and stuffs his face with another bite. The fucking churro is just as hot as it was a minute ago, and he flips Tina the bird when she laughs at his watering eyes.

He focuses on pulling the rest of the pastries from the pan and Tina returns to the couch and her notes after that, but her last question gnaws at him. He comes over with the plate of sugar-covered snacks and quizzes her for the next hour, pleased to find she is more than ready for the detective exam, and shares what he remembers from his own.

“Think I’ve got it?” she asks, uncharacteristically earnest. He’s so fucking proud of her.

“Damn right you’ve got it,” he says. “You’re gonna show me up at my own job. Are you ready to support my obsolete ass when Fowler realizes you’re the only detective he needs?”

She kicks him, laughing, and drops her notepad to the floor. “Thanks. Better put your ass in gear and make sergeant soon, then.”

He snorts. “Why do you think I let mr. Robot shadow my every step? Can’t wait to dump him on you when I move on. He’s a riot, you’ll love it.”

Tina raises her eyebrows. “Seriously though, is he so bad? Must be handy, analyzing evidence on the spot and looking shit up faster than you can pull your phone from your pocket. If they do roll out more like the captain said, I’d actually like one, I think.”

Gavin groans and flops back to rest against the armrest. “Yeah,” he admits, long-suffering, “he’s the peak of evolution for, like, Alexa, but you don’t want that thing breathing down your neck. I just…” He raises his arms above himself, exasperated. “I don’t fucking know. Cyber-fucks should of stripped at least the goddamn hyper-human look if they had to nerf their emoting capability, if you ask me. It’s a fucking miracle I’m not having nightmares because of the zombie stare that’s always on me.”

“Sounds rough, buddy,” Tina consoles him, only half mocking. “I bet it doesn’t help that you have history.”

He squints down his nose at her. “The fuck you mean?”

“I mean that you do, but he doesn’t,” she explains, clearing up absolutely nothing. “You know? You and Connor? The deviant hunter from November?”

Gavin can only rub his face and sigh. “Don’t remind me. Hey, was it just me, or did he have better animation than Nines? Sure he was kinda wooden and awkward as shit, but at least he was...” Gavin frowns at his ceiling. “I don’t wanna say _alive,_ but at least the lights were on in there, you know? Way more than in any other copbot, even before the wipeout. Sometimes I think he was deviant himself, whatever that means.”

“Means he got scrapped like the rest,” Tina says. “Why, you miss him?”

“I miss not having to look at my fucking computer on legs and expecting a human response because Kamski thought he could cross the uncanny valley,” he mutters.

\---

“Spar with me, iron man.”

“I am designed to disarm any opponent. You are no match for me, Detective.”

“This isn’t about disarming me, it’s about me practicing. Do your adaptation thing, let’s dance.”

Three minutes later, Gavin is cradling his side and limping into the locker room with muttered curses. He’s fairly sure nothing’s broken, but he’s gonna have a bruise for the fucking ages.

“We’re gonna work on your definition of of ‘pulling the punches,’ ” he wheezes at the unruffled robot. “And next time, take off that damn jacket.”

\---

More often than not, Gavin asks Nines to spar at the end of his bi-weekly workouts in the station’s gym. It takes a month of getting nearly knocked out each time before Nines learns the point of the exercise, but the satisfaction of a good fight is well worth it. He can hit as hard as he wants; Nines blocks the truly dangerous punches and rolls with the rest. They grapple, dodge, trip up, and work out a balance. Some days, Gavin goes at it with a boxer’s tenacity. Others, it’s about agility, outmaneuvering each other, learning tells and laying traps.

“Are you letting me win?”

Red cycles to yellow.

“You defied my calculations. Your victory is genuine.”

Gavin grins. Springs to his feet, feeling lighter than he has in weeks. Extends a hand to the android, but Nines is already halfway up. Gavin’s arm drops heavily to his side.

\---

Some days, he entertains the thought of telling Nines to put his back into it. Break his bones. Stop his breath. Spill his blood.

He goes home and gets drunk, restless still, on those days, and makes himself go to bed rather than looking for trouble. Waiting it out is the closest to a healthy coping mechanism he’s managed to develop.

\---

“Thanks for ruining the one single fucking good night I’ve had this month,” complains Gavin at 2:17 AM on Saturday, March 26th, as he grabs the overhead handhold in the empty bus and lets his body weight swing around with the vehicle’s movement.

Six hours ago, he was drinking to Tina’s accelerating career. She just earned her detective badge.

Three hours ago, Nines walked into the bar, got a drink thrown at the LED on his face, and all but dragged Gavin out by the collar of his short, definitely-not-work-appropriate leather jacket and to a freshly reported crime scene that should have given them their big break on the Red Circle case but didn’t.

Now they’re on the bus home — Gavin grabbed the android’s shoulder as soon as he could and led him off to the nearest bus stop, too riled up and embarrassed about his Friday-night-hopeful attire to ask for a ride from any of the officers present at the scene and feeling vaguely guilty about the yellowish stain of beer all down the front of Nines’ shirt and jacket. And it wasn’t even him who threw the glass.

Nines says something in reply, but the wall separating the android compartment from the passenger area muffles his words. Gavin waves it away. “You’ll tell me later.”

He doesn’t sit. Firstly, he’s exhausted and still buzzed from the drinks he’s had - he’ll fall asleep if he does. Secondly…

Secondly, Nines is standing ramrod straight, facing him, in the rear of the bus: picture-perfect obedient machine in its place, pristine and gorgeous but for the beer stain. They watch each other through the dirty partition with anti- and pro-android stickers warring for space among vague slogans scratched into the plexiglas. Every single detail — the divide, the vandalism, the clear blue of the armband and the triangle, the yellow-yellow-cyan and the cold grey that flicker in shifting streetlights on Nines’ focused face — punches him somewhere he can normally ignore for the sake of his peace of mind. Somewhere that might be a conscience in a better man than Gavin Reed.

There are two X marks at eye level and their meaning doesn’t hit him until he swings to the left a little and they line up with Nines’ eyes.

The bus comes out of the turn, Gavin regains his balance, and his gaze remains locked with the android’s.

There is too much between them, and Gavin desperately wishes to know what all of it even _is._

Shit, he’d settle for knowing if Nines realizes the weight, too.

Why would he though, Gavin thinks to himself as he stomps up the dark staircase to his third floor apartment, the android quiet and precise behind him. He doesn’t look at the markers on his jacket and see history.

“Give me your clothes,” he says, once they’re inside, motioning for the android to undress. “I’ll throw ‘em in the wash for you.”

“I should be returned to the precinct. My spare uniform is there.”

“It’s the middle of the night, you won’t short out if you go in the morning. Give it here.”

And that’s how Gavin ends the night with a very attractive man who could pin him to a wall stripping in his living room. He’s too tired to snort at the irony. Nines looks much better without the layers and the identification: soft, almost alive in the dim light from the windows.

Gavin snatches the surrendered garments with more force than is necessary, covers up his momentary lapse of judgement with anger. The vertices of the triangle patch dig into his clenching hand. He retreats to the bathroom to load up the washing machine and hide from his loneliness projecting some unvoiced frustrations on the android.

He feels pathetic, wishing that Nines would express something, anything. But that’s not the kind of world they live in. In the morning, the robot will put the jacket back on and march to his charging spot in the precinct to wait for Gavin’s shift to begin. If Gavin is lucky, he’ll do it without waking him.

He showers, walks to his bedroom, pulls on his sleep clothes; tosses a clean t-shirt and a slurred _make yourself at home_ at Nines before collapsing into bed. Wonders, briefly, if he would be able to fall asleep in front of the android if he weren’t so tired, body and mind, and then lets darkness claim him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bits and pieces of this and the concepts surrounding this fic were shared in the [New ERA discord](https://discord.gg/GqvNzUm). Come join us!
> 
> I also lurk on [tweeter](https://twitter.com/chromaberrant). and in [detwoit.](https://discord.gg/JmnukKp) and with some [phcking androids.](https://discord.gg/6mNna3K)
> 
> I may or may not be planning a bigger fic that explores the fallout of Nines getting his antivirus shot out and Gavin discovering a modicum of empathy. So far I have a title and a premise, which is a first, because this puppy was hard to write but titling the chapters was even harder. -w-


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